Antithesis
by Luminaries
Summary: Saving a citizen turns out to be far more complicated than Altair realises...


Eclipsed by the silhouette of the nearest building, wrapped in shade and shadow, Altair stands concealed from watchful eyes.

The assassin presses his hands against the closest wall, tracing cracks and battered stone with callused fingers, shifting slightly forward to gain an improved view of the street beyond.

Intense, piercing eyes focus on a struggling figure, surrounded by grabbing, sneering city guards. Their mocking remarks blend with the victim's increasingly louder cries for help, echoing up the street. Although the walkway is filled with merchants, peasants, carriers and many other passers-by, no one stops to aid the wretched figure – the guards' sharp swords and threatening manner serve as sufficient warning to keep away.

Quietly stepping away from the corner of the building, Altair allows his white hood to fall over his tanned face, obscuring his features. For a small moment, he hesitates, his mind rapidly analysing the scene he has witnessed, weighing up the benefits and consequences, comparing guard positions with possible attacks.

After brief consideration, the assassin's mouth hardens, and he turns his face determinedly towards the dusty street. Folding his hands in a semblance of humility and contemplation, the figure in white robes glides out from within the shadows, and blends effortlessly into the crowd.

* * *

The city guard stands watch as his comrades pummel and insult their victim, keen eyes skimming the crowd for potential threats. If even slightly jostled by a passer-by, he roughly shoves the offending person, sending them scurrying in the opposite direction. The cries of the guards split the air in a mocking cacophony: "Thief! You are filth!"

Another person bumps slightly against the watching guard; annoyance flares hotly within him – are these peasants unable to grasp the concept of personal space? He brings his arms up sharply to halt the figure in its tracks. His fingers dig into white fabric, acidic glare meeting a raptor's gaze.

He is about to push the offender away when a small ripping sound reverberates in his ears, sharp pain blazes through his chest. Clutching a hand to the centre of the pain, his fingers brush sharp steel. He cannot breathe, cannot cry out for the blade lodged between his ribs, or for the blood seeping through his fingers.

The man in the white robes cradles his slumped body for a short moment – strange, so gentle, so brutal. He can't seem to make a sound. The blade took all the breath from his lungs. Slowly, silently, he crumples.

A strangled yell from one of the other guards sends Altair spinning to face them, curved knife in hand, boots creating whirls of dust that are rapidly snatched away by the wind. His opponents fan out to enclose and entrap him - one, two, three guards, and more are rushing up the street with swords drawn.

Fierce joy thrums in the assassin's blood as he sways gracefully on his feet, back and forth, awaiting the first assault, blade glinting viciously in the sunlight. Behind him, the guards' victim cowers in a mix of fear and awe, hands covering his face.

Altair swiftly moves to place his back against a wall, preventing any surprise attacks from behind, holding his knife aloft in a defensive stance. The guards shout threats and shake their swords in fury; one rushes forward to the attack, deftly swinging his sword to break the assassin's defence.

A ringing, metallic screech shatters the air as the blades meet. Altair feels the blow shudder through his entire body, before quickly bringing his blade to bear. His only response is to duck under the guard's arm and thrust the knife, hard, into his enemy's body – once, twice, and a spray of blood leaps into the air.

The first man has fallen, but many more surround the assassin in a ring of death. The moments blur into a synthesis of splattering blood, the clashing of metal, and heavy thuds as bodies hit the ground, as he meets each assault with one of his own, efficiently scattering the enemy, never openly attacking, waiting patiently for them to come to him. Drawn like moths to a flame.

Only a few remain. Altair breathes the dry Syrian air in a pause between strikes, drawing it deep into his lungs, tension radiating through his entire body. Detachedly, he assesses his body for damage – a large cut on his left arm, a few bruises and scrapes; minor injuries. There are only a few men left, and then this battle will be done.

One guard screams in a rage and leaps forward to impale him with his sword, but Altair darts behind the man before he has a chance to drive the blade home. A ferocious stab through the throat quickly and brutally ends his life. The assassin jerks his blade free of the man's corpse, whirling to face the remaining guard.

The man gasps and flinches away from the abhorrent sight – the splattered blood and battered corpses litter the ground like leaves. For a moment, it seems as though he will throw down his sword and flee. The stench of fear is heavy on the air.

Wiping the sweat from his face, the man flourishes his sword, resolve hardening the lines of his face. Raising the blade high above his head, he brings the sword down onto Altair in a chopping motion. His eyes, burning with anger, lock onto the intense gaze of the assassin. Their blades meet in a shower of sparks, clashing together as each struggle for mastery.

Without warning, Altair leaps backwards, allowing the guard's sword to come whistling down, unbalancing the man. Not expecting the assassin to give way, the guard stumbles forwards, dragged to the ground by the weight and momentum of his sword. It is then that Altair's blade pierces his neck.

Relief and triumph surge through the assassin's body as he withdraws his blade and snaps it back into its sheath, rising fluidly from the still corpse. A quick, analytical survey of his surroundings reveals that the citizens formerly lining the street have fled the scene with terrified screams. No witnesses remain; the street is utterly deserted.

It is strange, though, that no other guards have passed by; usually he must vacate the scene as a patrol guard bends down over crumpled bodies, avoiding their drawn blades and paranoid gazes. Not this time - the road is completely silent, void of life.

Altair is uneasy. Perhaps it would be best to hasten away from this scene of death as soon as possible. Something does not feel right, does not settle correctly in his mind.

He was just turning, just about to face the victim who had been cringing pathetically in the corner, when his breath seemed to catch in his throat, and his heart thundered painfully in his chest, and a sharp pain suddenly seared through his body.

The assassin's shaking fingers reach out behind him and clamp onto a hand. The hand is holding the hilt of a knife. A knife buried deep into his back.

A trembling breath escapes Altair's lips; he wants to look around, set his eyes upon his attacker, but a small part of his mind calmly registers that twisting will only make the wound worse. The problem is partially solved when the hand wrenches itself from his grip and yanks the blade from his body.

Pain flares instantly through his system, although he does not think the wound is fatal; none of his vital organs have been punctured, and already the cloth of his robe is sticking to the wound, sealing it over, preventing further blood loss.

With lightning reflexes, Altair turns and snatches his attacker by the throat. Anger and frustration lend him strength, and at last, he is able to look into the enemy's face.

It is the man who he thought he had saved; the same man who seemed wretched and pathetic as the guards threw punches and insults, who cowered as a scene of terrible, graceful carnage unfolded before him.

This is why there is no one around. It is all a trap, set up to pull the wool over the assassin's eyes.

The man's face is young but haggard; frown lines crisscross the skin around his dark eyes. His mouth is twisted with hatred; clawing at the assassin's hand, still locked around his throat, he hisses, "Filthy assassin! Foul, treacherous creature!"

Stunned, Altair glares furiously at the man. "Who do you serve? Why have you done this?" he demands, but his opponent simply continues to stare at him with the utmost contempt. No matter how much Altair threatens and coaxes, in a soft, dangerous tone, the man refuses to talk.

In the same smooth movement, the assassin drops the man and flicks his hidden blade, bringing it to bear. If this man will not talk, he must die. However, as soon as Altair releases his throat, the victim scrambles to his feet, choking on dust, and sprints away down the street.

With a sharp rush of adrenaline searing his veins, Altair is up and running after the man, wind blowing his robes, his sash like a bloodstain flowing in midair, blood on his robes and hunger in his eyes.

His boots pound the ground in a rapid tattoo as he puts on an extra burst of speed. The target glances behind him, only to see his pursuer drawing ever closer. Altair draws much-needed air into his lungs; the wound in his back is throbbing, gradually leeching strength from his muscles.

At last, the opponent reaches the end of the street, face flushed with exertion and from the heat. He spins around and meets the assassin's eyes with a challenging, triumphant glare - he has only to call the guards and it is all over. Now gasping for air, Altair is not sure if he possesses the strength to survive another battle, and the man knows this all too well.

The small pause the man takes is all Altair needs. Suddenly panicked, the target opens his mouth, ready to shout for the guards, but it is too late. Altair's shadow falls over his face, and six inches of steel slam into his neck.

A loud shriek issues from the man's mouth, abruptly cut off by blood gushing from his throat. As the target begins to crumple to the ground, the assassin catches him, lowering him gently.

"Why have you done this?" Altair murmurs softly, voice harsh. The man struggles to rise again, still refusing to speak. "You are already dead; there is no point in resisting. I need to know who you work for."

At last, the man falls weakly back. Shakily wiping a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth, he catches Altair's gaze with his own. A chilling smile spreads across his paling face.

"Ah, assassin… now you know how it feels, to be working in the name of your own beliefs, only to have your life cut short… by one who does not believe as you do."

"You speak in riddles; speak plainly!" Altair demands, so close to the truth, but it is no use; the young man ignores his words. Clutching the assassin's hand with one of his own, he whispers fiercely, "You will soon learn the error of your ways. And…. if not, I hope they kill you for what you've done."

Frustrated, Altair passes his hand over the victim's eyes to close them. It is then that the sound of pounding feet and bloodthirsty yells reaches his keen ears. The guards, alerted by the young man's scream of terror and pain, are heading in this direction. He must act fast.

Without getting up from his half-crouched position, Altair quickly searches the body for any sign, any evidence pointing to the identity of the man. There are no papers, no rings, nothing to suggest allegiance to a certain group. It is only when he pulls aside the man's patched, frayed and dirty robe that the victim's true identity reveals itself.

Red and white blur in the assassin's vision as he glares angrily at the vibrant red cross adorned across the man's tabard, blazing ever brighter in the sun.


End file.
